


You Make Me Feel Like Dancing

by rispacooper



Series: The Slutty Boys 'Verse [8]
Category: Psych
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An excessive amount of bedroom negotiations. I *swear* it was supposed to just be pr0n. Um…so maybe paranoid Lassi isn’t the one with all the trust issues. Number Eight, and then one more after this and srsly, I have no idea how this series got so loooong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Shawn’s really not sure whether to be irritated or amused at Lassi’s response to his words. He’s leaning toward amused, mostly because if _he_ had heard those words coming out of his mouth, he would have pulled a Gus and run for the hills instead of just shooting him a dark look of disbelief.

And honestly, he’d kind of expected that reaction.

But since the look is all he got—okay maybe that’s some hurt creeping in there too because that look hadn’t been very _nice_ and he’s got almost nothing but Carlton’s best interests at heart and he really needs to work on those trust issues—Shawn leans back against the passenger side door and gives Lassi as wide-eyed a look as he can manage and tries again.

“Seriously, Lass, trust me here.”

This time Lassiter snorts like that horse of his named after the CSI guy. His hands clench around the steering wheel once and then release enough to slide down to the bottom.

Shawn wouldn’t have figured Lassi for the type of guy to drive with a gangsta lean, but he has a feeling that if Lassi actually were ever to relax, he might stretch out his long legs and lean back and put one hand on the wheel and one on the seat next to him.

If he were ever to relax, which seems unlikely at this point in time. Lassiter is currently even more tense than Gus was that day in high school when Shawn convinced him to ditch school and then take his dad’s car into the city so they could go to that museum and that restaurant and then dance in a parade. Which okay, yes, was also the plot of Ferris Bueller, but their parade had been totally different and once he’d had a few beers and forgotten about his modesty, Gus had looked really good in those leather chaps and rainbow-colored clogs.

It was too bad that Gus had sworn him to secrecy on pain of telling Jules and Lassiter how Shawn had actually lost his virginity because those guys on the Trojan float had been pretty cool about all the vomit on their thongs.

Shawn spends a moment or two trying to imagine Lassi in chaps before deciding that some things were just not meant to be. Though Lassi _is_ a fan of dress up, so it just might happen someday.

“That’s it?” Lassiter’s grunt distracts him and Shawn sits back in his seat and waits for the glance his way. It takes about a second, after Lassi safely signals and then changes lanes and gets off the highway. “No visions? No feeling me up? No references to some little-known Eighties film like _Satisfaction_?”

“Would you believe them? And I never was a big Justine Bateman fan.” Shawn could snort too, not that he would. Lassi shoots him another look anyway. It’s dark in the car, but he can still get a clear picture of frustrated blue. Lassiter’s hands wrap around the wheel again, but Shawn is not going to focus on those long fingers or picture them sliding down the zipper on his fly no matter how hot it is that Lassi knows that movie. He’s not. Okay, just a little. His stomach does a little flip that makes it hard to speak for a second. “But I can feel you up if you want.”

Lassiter yanks on the wheel and Shawn bumps the door again as they take a turn just a little too fast. The car immediately slows and Carlton takes a deep breath. Then another. His hands don’t relax though, which means a possible change in plan is called for. Well _another_ change in plan. He’s already changed plans once tonight, maybe it’s time to let Lassi in on that fact before his case gives him a heart attack and they spend all night in the hospital instead of having the dirty, freaky sex that has him screaming out in Little Girl Voice.

“Spencer…” The low growl sort of rumbles through the space between them like thunder and Shawn brings his gaze up just in time to catch the flash of _fuck you/I want to_ in Lassi’s eyes. Carlton holds his gaze for one long, hot second and then drags his eyes back to road. He grips the steering wheel again. Shawn doesn’t blame him. Though he does shift in his seat and put a hand out to hold onto the door handle. His stomach flips around again.

The reason his jeans suddenly seem a lot tighter than they were that morning turns out to be the same reason Lassifras is so tense. It isn’t the case at all, or at least not completely. Lassiter is tense because he’s in a car with _Shawn_.

Shawn had practically had to drag Lassiter away from his desk and out of the station, and it had taken almost every single bit of his considerable charm and practical experience in getting the Lassiter to do what he wanted just to get him out the door. It had taken a well-timed reminder that they had dinner reservations—or draping himself across Lassiter’s desk and narrating a “vision” of Lassiter out on a date loud enough for the whole room to hear but stopping just before being forced to reveal who the unknown date was—to get Lassiter to walk away from his post by the fax machine where he’d been waiting for lab results to come through.

His wife clearly hadn’t been annoyi—persistent enough. Shawn has to make a note of that for the future, right next to the idea about lap dances. Because while Lassiter was definitely so strung out that if he peed in a cup it might come out pure caffeine and sugar, it’s mostly because Shawn just reminded him that they are alone in a car. Alone in a car on their way to Date Number Two.

Which is really Date Number Three, if Shawn counts lunch at the Reenactment, which he of course does, because Date Number Three is a special date and he is trying to sort of mostly follow Gus’ rules, and he doesn’t want Lassi to think he’s easy even if Lassi already knows about his slight kink for public bathroom sex.

Though he would go along with it if Lassiter hit the brakes and pulled him into the backseat.

For a moment Shawn closes his eyes. It would be a tight fit even in Lassiter’s boat of a car, but he could probably manage to slide into his lap, maybe hold tight onto the ceiling, the stupid handle over the door, and Lassiter is strong enough to hold him up, keep him steady for each down stroke.

Could make it like high school and blast some GNR from the radio, although it’s Lassiter, so the radio is probably set to some hideous easy listening station, but Lassiter is screwable to Lionel Richie or DeBarge, or even Eric Carmen.

Shawn shifts again at the thought of the classic example of slow-dancing prom music that is ‘Hungry Eyes’ and looks over. Lassi would buy his prom date the corsage and everything.

“Spencer…” He twitches a little at Lassiter’s new warning, not really expecting Lassiter to guess what he was thinking, or at least not so quickly, and maybe not the Lassi-in-a-blue-tux part. When he looks over a second time, there’s actually a small, smug twist to the other man’s lips which only Lassiter would call a smile. It disappears a moment later. “You insisted I leave in the middle of an investigation.” Lassiter taps the wheel with his thumb and tightens his jaw. “You insisted we have a second date after…after the way the first one ended… And now you want to…”

“Hop in your backseat and rub all over each other like desperate teenagers?”

Despite being in a residential zone, Lassiter takes another turn just a little too fast. He ought to pull himself over and give himself a warning.

Shawn watches him swallow and then consciously make the effort to drive slower. It makes him glance at the road too, and he nods.

“Left up here,” he directs as casually as he can and listens to the click of the turn signal and Lassiter’s heavy breathing.

“I’ve been on this case for weeks and the lab results were finally supposed to come through today.” It takes a while, but Lassiter finally answers, clearly trying to ignore Shawn’s offer to get them both arrested for public indecency.

Shawn crosses his arms and very obviously doesn’t take a second to adjust himself.

“And we had a date. A very important date, as I’m sure even you can recall with your normal, tiny, non-psychic mind.” It’s getting hard not to feel like the girl right now, though he _is_ happy he hadn’t changed his outfit for this. Lassiter just makes the growling sound again and opens his mouth, probably to point out—again—that Shawn isn’t psychic. “Anyway, it was dark outside. The lab guys have all gone home by now.” And of course, that hair isn’t going to match anyone but the careless cop who left it at the scene—worried about dandruff and brushing his shoulders. Shawn had watched him do it and if he’d known it was going to get found and tested, he would have said something before.

Lassiter’s jaw snaps shut in time for Shawn to wonder if this is their first fight. Except it doesn’t really feel like a fight. Not when their fights usually lead to handcuffs and Shawn being pressed between a Lassiter and a hard place.

That’s an image to make him pause for another few moments. A memory playing in front of his eyes of Lassiter’s hand on his bare hip, his skin sticky with sweat, Lassiter’s tie in front of his eyes. That’s only one example. There’s more that slip easily in front of his eyes. A dozen incidents at the station, at crime scenes, Shawn being shoved against the heat of the Crown Vic, letting Lassiter push himself between his legs, letting him, acting like he hadn’t wanted it when he’d provoked each and every confrontation. He’d slid his hands across Lassiter’s chest on more than one occasion just to get Lassiter that rough with him, that close, and then he had walked away.

So all their fights lead to sex, or what should have been sex. He really should have figured this out sooner. Lassiter had, which was just embarrassing. No wonder the man had been walking around with a clenched jaw and a permanent stick up his sexy ass for the past few months.

Now after getting Lassiter to relax for the whole half a second, Lassiter’s whole body is radiating tension again. He’s giving Shawn looks every few moments, and even in the dim light his cheeks are bright with color. This time not only does Shawn’s stomach start to churn, but his chest gets tight.

“It’s an important case,” he grumbles finally and Shawn smiles. He leans back in his seat, slightly more at ease than he was when he first got into the car. Lassiter’s feelings seem to come out in different shades of anger, except for his actual anger, which, interestingly, makes Lassiter go really quiet.

So for Carlton, the grumble meant that he was really frustrated with the case, and he was really frustrated with the way their last date had not worked out for him, and he didn’t mean to be taking it out on Shawn, even though, of course, he was welcome to take it out on Shawn in the dirtiest way possible.

Someday, Shawn is going to have to find a way to explain all this to Gus so Gus can see just how sweet Lassiter really is. He’s like this big awkward puppy who likes to shoot things and fucks like every time might be his last time.

He may have gone too far with that last image.

Shawn takes a second to shake it off before moving on.

“Aw.” He’s grinning, he can’t help it, no matter how suspicious Lassiter’s expression gets. “Does someone need a hug?” He keeps his tone as light as a pineapple Italian soda. Lassiter just grunts. Shawn pushes against his seat. “How about a Mexican lap dance?”

“What’s a Mexic…?” Lassi stares at him, then whips his head back around to watch the road. Shawn waves him toward the right. “I am not going to ask,” Carlton adds, almost to himself, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel.

“Good, because we’d have to stop and get some lipstick, and I’ve never thought it looked good on me no matter what shade I get.”

The car doesn’t jerk this time, or even slow down. Carlton just breathes out through his nose, long and slow. Shawn stretches, extending his arms and brushing Lassiter’s shoulder just for the sake of touching him.

“You’re certifiable,” Lassiter says at last, still breathing hard, glancing at him again and clearly trying not to. “And I’m crazy to be listening to you. To be sitting here with you, on my way to…”

Shawn waits while Lassiter finally takes a good look at the area they’re in.

“There’s no restaurant around here, Spencer.” He states the obvious like a pro, his voice rising. Seriously, he needs to hang out with Gus more. They have so much in common.

“I told you to trust me.” Shawn rubs his hands together and takes a moment to inspect the manicure he’d gotten that morning. Not even a hint of cuticle. Yes, okay fine, he admits at last to an imaginary Gus giving him the eyebrow, he _might_ be the girl here. But having nice-looking hands is a priority in his life. “One more right at this corner.”

“This is my neighborhood, Spencer.” Lassiter doesn’t acknowledge that Shawn has said a word, but turns the car anyway—without signaling this time. He really ought to give himself a ticket; this is as reckless as Lassiter gets for things that aren’t arresting psychos and charging in to rescue people.

“Have I ever steered you wrong, Carlton?” He doesn’t mean to look over as he says it, but he can feel Lassiter’s gaze on him and has to turn to face him. It’s only for a moment before Lassiter has to look back to the road, but it feels a lot longer. Shawn shifts under the weight of it, hears Henry telling him “don’t mess this up, kid.” But he knows he hasn’t ever _truly_ lied to Lassiter, not once, except for his original lie, which doesn’t count since it had been done out of need at the time. He knows it and Lassiter knows it, even if Lass doesn’t want to admit it.

It’s hard to breathe for a second anyway, even knowing that. Lassiter sighs into the space between them that has suddenly gone really quiet and Shawn clears his throat. The dating thing is to establish trust, Gus says, but really if working together for over a year didn’t already give them that, he doesn’t see how a dinner was going to change anything.

“Stop here.”

They were barely crawling along after the turn, but Lassiter swears as they bounce over the curb. He let the car idle for a moment without raising his head, then yanks up the brake and turns off the engine in one move.

He turns to face Shawn with a jerk and then stops just as abruptly. His eyes are pure blue circles before he remembers to scowl. Shawn might be having trouble breathing.

“This is my house, Spencer,” Lassi observes in a low voice and Shawn switches on a smile, tries to inhale.

“Obviously! I can see now how you made Head Detective so young even without the aid of the spirits.” Shawn gets out of his seatbelt and swings himself out of the car. He bends down a second later and tries to look like Lisa when she wants Screech to do her bidding. “Now are you going to invite me in for a nightcap? Or coffee? Or to look at your gun collection?” His mouth goes dry. “Or sex?”

Lassiter’s scowl only gets worse, as Shawn had first thought it might when he’d decided at the station to blow off dinner. The decision had been made for Lassi’s own good, which Lassi would agree with, once Shawn finally told him.

That wasn’t even the hard part. That’s right now, letting Lassiter glare at him without looking away, or running away, or doing anything to take him safely away from the embarrassed and pissed off and armed Irish cop who also happened to sort of, almost, be his boyfriend.

Shawn blinks at the thought and Lassiter flicks his gaze down. He sucks in a breath and then a second later he’s fighting with the seatbelt and out of the car. He slams the door and stalks around to the other side.

From the side, Shawn catches part of a narrow-eyed look, but then Lassiter is moving past him and heading up the small walkway to his front door.

Since he doesn’t actually tell Shawn no, Shawn waits for a heartbeat or two and then follows him. And by follows, he means walking faster than even Lassi’s ridiculously long legs can carry him and getting to the door first.

The security light flicks on in time to illuminate Lassi’s eye roll. Shawn watches as Lass gets closer, then ducks his head when Lassiter stops next to him.

Lass doesn’t have a very large porch, or any decorations on it other than a bench that probably came with the house, but then, he can’t really imagine Lass taking the time to decorate, so clearly, the man is long overdue for a boyfriend who knows things about throw pillows.

Shawn doesn’t. But he can always ask Gus, which is practically the same thing.

He glances around once, taking in the sprinkler system keeping everything green, the new paint on the door. It isn’t a bad replacement for the old house, even if Lassi hasn’t really made it a home yet.

When he brings his attention back Lassiter is standing by the door, but must have turned to watch Shawn memorize the front of his house.

The smile switches on before Shawn can help it, his hands coming up in big waves that can mean anything from “look at me” to “pay no attention to the fake psychic in the awesome alligator shirt.”

Carlton angles his head back. It’s dark out and just on the right side of chilly, but he still has his suit on, his tie tied, his gun safely holstered. Everything about him says he’s still on the job, even if his eyes linger on Shawn’s mouth for a moment when Shawn licks his lips.

“I thought you wanted the whole…thing…” The man is always paranoid and suspicious, blind kindergarteners in China know this, but there’s no need for him to sound so…afraid. Shawn’s not really sure what’s got Carlton freaked out now, although he’s not going to burst into flames if he says ‘dating’ out loud.

He takes a step closer and Carlton’s head goes back another inch. His eyes get wider too, but otherwise he stays where he is.

“The whole package?” Shawn suggests and then immediately snickers. His eyes drop too, but he can’t be held responsible for that since he knows exactly what Lassi is packing.

“Oh shut up.” With another dramatic roll of his eyes, Lass pulls his keys from his coat pocket and unlocks both locks on the door. “What are you, twelve?” He doesn’t fiddle with his keys, which is a little disappointing, but this _is_ Lassi Lovely Locks, he’s not going to tease.

He holds out one hand when the door slides open and puts the other on his gun, expecting terrorists to be waiting inside his house and wanting to keep Shawn out of the line of fire. Shawn instantly bounces against the hand holding him back, grinning when Lassiter half-turns back to glare a warning at him.

His grin lasts for all of a second, then heat flares up and Shawn’s brain realizes that oh yes, he’s just pressed himself to Lassi’s lean, warm frame, and Lassiter has turned into it, and if he looks up their mouths are going to be close to touching.

Lassiter swallows. Shawn watches the motion of his throat, stares at the blue and white flecks of Lassi’s tie. When Lassi breathes out it’s the same wet warmth as before, on his face, on his neck. Shawn might be shaking.

“Shawn,” Lassi starts, choking out one word and then stopping. Shawn’s is ninety-nine percent sure that Lassi is thinking about Shawn’s earlier prediction about this date, about what might happen in a doorway just like this one. He’s sure because _he’s_ thinking about it, and wondering how sturdy the doorframe is, and how busy this street traffic gets at night.

He looks up, and the security light flicks off.

Sweet Dole Pineapples, it’s suddenly, incredibly hot.

“Spencer?” Lassiter’s voice rumbles right next to Shawn’s ear. Shawn’s shiver is pure reflex, something he can’t control, the same way that he can’t control reaching out, sliding his hands over Carlton’s dress shirt.

Carlton sucks in a breath and then Shawn is blinking as the light comes back on and Lassiter is moving into the house, shooting Shawn a look. He flips the light switch, and as he does his lips are curved in that smug excuse for a smile again.

Apparently, Lassiter _is_ going to tease.

Shawn lets out a loud breath and then follows Lassi inside his house, letting his eyes go everywhere since Lassiter is already creeping ahead and checking his house for landmines. There’s no limit to his paranoia.

The man probably does that check every time he comes home. Shawn takes a second to not feel insulted at being ignored for an imaginary attack since Jules _had_ once invited half the criminals in town to Lassi’s house, to watch Lassiter check something in a bowl of nuts on the counter and then shake his head and continue his study elsewhere.

Knowing Lass, it’s probably a gun. Shawn has never dated anyone like this before—never dated _anyone_ before—so of course he picks the weirdest almost-boyfriend ever. To make it worse, Henry would probably approve.

Lassiter has a small, dusty house, though still a hundred times bigger and cleaner than Shawn’s apartment. The basics are all there. TV, couch, coffee table. Some books, an entertainment center. Nothing too expensive. His flat screen would fit in here nicely if Shawn ever decided to take it out of the office. A kitchen with a breadbox and some appliances. Lassi must like to cook sometimes. Surprisingly domestic for a man who was probably checking a gun he’d stashed in his shower. Not a lot of decorations, not that Shawn had expected them, and not unless he counted the Wall of Weird as a decoration.

Annoyed with Gus for making him even _think_ a _Smallville_ reference, Shawn closes and locks the front door behind him and steps farther into the room.

There’s no ‘Guns’N’Ammo’ on the coffee table—so Lassi must keep them in the bathroom. Anyway, why would Lassi need anything that obsessive out when half of one wall was already full of tacked-up pictures of suspects and copies of evidence reports?

Shawn snorts to himself and gets closer, recognizing the name on one mug shot instantly. The man doesn’t look familiar, though the tattoo on his neck is unforgettable, even for people without eidetic memories. Shawn’s pretty sure lizards can’t grow two of those, but he never paid attention in science class, so maybe it’s possible.

Something about the tattoo itches at the back of his brain. He hasn’t seen it before, but the style seems distinctive. Christian Slater—not the biter, but the one who had run the piercing bar where Shawn had worked as a clean up guy until he’d seen the first drop of blood and run away screaming—had said how tattoo artists each had their own style and signature, and if Lassi is looking for a guy with that much ink, he ought to check out the parlors in town.

He is clearly stuck in his investigation, and while he might have a chance if he gets the guy in an interrogation room—the room where he does his best work if Shawn doesn’t count bathrooms—so far he hasn’t been able to find him. Which was why he’d been grasping at stray hairs and practically camped out at the station for the past two days.

He’d been going to forget their date, Shawn could tell from that one guilty blue glance across the station when he had walked in. Or just blow it off, saying he wasn’t in any condition to go out in public.

It would have been true. Sitting at a table, in a crowded restaurant full of potential criminals and witnesses, trying not to think about what was going to happen once they got back here, would just have wound Carlton up even more. And though winding Carlton up usually had pretty fun consequences, Shawn also wanted to be able to walk tomorrow. They had a case to solve after all.

Anyway, they had waited long enough. Over a year, even if they—okay— _Shawn_ —hadn’t known it all that time. The reservations weren’t going to waste. He’d left a text for Gus to meet him for dinner at _Ciao’s_ at eight-thirty, and then left one for Jules at the same time. The case would be there tomorrow. In the meantime…

He licks his lips again, knowing the sign of anxiety for what it is even if no one is there to call him on it. He puts a hand to his stomach.

Shawn tears his eyes away from Lassiter’s tribute to obsession and then can’t help his slight start to see that Lassi has apparently finished his perimeter check and somehow snuck past him. He’s leaning against the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room.

He’s loosened the knot of his tie, just a little, but otherwise shows no signs of relaxing. He’s a big, tall pasty statue in a cheap suit. His gaze is intense, and even recognizing it instantly as Lassiter’s interrogation stare doesn’t keep Shawn’s heart from pounding hard against his ribs.

His legs go a little wobbly too. Must be hunger. He’s not sure when he’s going to get dinner now.

“So, Spencer…” Lassi is way too big of a dork for Shawn to find this sexy. The man hides guns in pistachios. But the drawn-out way Lassiter says his name is making him twitchy for some naked time.

He turns anyway, until he is completely facing Lassi, and keeps his expression as clear as he can. Which of course makes Lassiter give him the eyebrow too.

“Why are we here?” Lassi stops abruptly at his own loaded question and Shawn perks up again at how Lassiter has to break eye contact. It’s just for a second, and then he’s staring again, determined to make Shawn break. “Why not out on the date you insisted we have?”

“I really don’t know why you have to be this direct all the time.” Shawn crosses his arms, another giveaway, and Henry would scold him to see him being so careless. “You ought to lighten up once in a while, Lass.” Except that a frowning and focused Lassiter going down on him had been the highlight of his year so far, and that included finding a _dinosaur_. Lassi’s tongue, almost shy, but so, so good. He might marry Lassi’s tongue. After he marries his hands. And his dick. And his stomach. He hasn’t really explored his ass yet though, so he has to wait on that one.

Lass just continues to stare at him.

Shawn _could_ wait it out. Lassi isn’t patient on a good day and today has not been a good day. He thinks about it, then twitches some more.

Communication. Right. Gus had gone on about that again for a while. At least Shawn’s pretty sure he had. He hadn’t been listening.

“I didn’t think you were in the mood.” He admits at last, moving his eyes around the room again, not that he’s forgotten a single speck of dust or remote shoved between the couch cushions.

“And this is better?” Both of Carlton’s eyebrows go up this time.

Shawn’s gasp is close to perfect.

“Carlton… That hurts.” Lassiter frowns in response to Shawn’s words, and then snaps his head up and outright glares, obviously not believing his act. It would have been a problem, but Carlton had never believed his act, so after a while Shawn gives up and shrugs.

“So…” Lass is using that tone again, considering, and it might almost be worth it for Shawn to be arrested again just to get thrown into Interrogation with this Lassiface. He might able to handle it better this time without getting flustered and confused and—yes—turned on and jealous of that other cop and careless and then having to blurt out a crazy lie to save himself. “Just what is the plan then?”

“Plan?” Shawn has to scratch his head at that one. “Aside from…?” His tongue suddenly gets stuck to the roof of his mouth, so he waves a hand in the general direction of Carlton’s bedroom. He had grabbed Carlton Lassiter and blown him in a stall in a men’s room at a strip club. He had jacked off in public for this man. Now was not the time to lose the ability to scream out, “Oh god yes please, fuck me, Carlton.”

He opens his mouth to try again but Lassiter is looking at him. Looking at him. Not arguing. Not telling him to shut up. Just looking at him. In that suit. All intense and blue and white and _hungry_.

“We could…” Shawn scratches again. He’s actually pretty hungry too. “…Order a pizza?”

He has no idea why that makes Carlton’s scowl vanish, or why that smirk has come back to torment him.

“You mean you don’t know?” Carlton laughs, then stops, then laughs again. And no, Shawn doesn’t see what’s so funny. “Shawn Spencer doesn’t know?”

“Of course I know…I just…don’t see why I have to say it. I offered the first beej after all.” It takes way too much effort to keep that statement breezy.

“So I’m supposed to?” Lassi, being Lassi, totally ignores the last part of Shawn’s argument and stands up straight. His tone is disbelieving. He works his jaw, debating being stubborn, Shawn can tell.

Shawn narrows his eyes and stays where he is. Being the first counts for a lot. Once he’d finally understood—and come to terms with his sickening addiction to a nerdy detective—how much he’d wanted Lassiter he had made his feelings more than clear. It wasn’t like Lassiter had gotten onto his knees on that filthy floor and sucked _his_ brains out through his cock.

Though the memory of it is almost enough to make his legs go weak. Then he realizes that has no idea what Lassiter is thinking, if he’s remembering it too, or what he thinks of Shawn for doing it like that.

Lassiter just makes an annoyed noise and runs his hands through his hair, communicating just fine without words that he thinks this is a stupid argument and that he thinks Shawn is a lunatic. Then he clears his throat.

“ _Menucci’s_ okay?” he grumbles at last and Shawn wrinkles his nose.

“Not their sausage,” he agrees on one condition and Lassiter instantly turns to pick up his phone. With the other man’s back turned, Shawn can move again, his brain switching back on. “Don’t forget…!”

“Extra pineapple?” Lassiter snorts and ducks down for a moment to look through a stack of flyers and coupons. Shawn stops. He only realizes he’s smiling when Lassiter glances up in the middle of dialing the number to roll his eyes. His cheeks and ears are tinged pink. “Like I don’t know your disgusting tastes by now, Spencer.” He manages a faint sneer, but his mouth looks soft. “You advertise your love with all the subtlety of a Las Vegas billboard. Delivery.” He turns back toward the kitchen to bark into the phone, which is good, because Shawn is staring after him.

“First of all, Lass...” After a pause, Shawn starts in again, even though Lassiter is trying to tune him out to make the order. “If I’m so obvious, then what is my billboard saying right now?” Lassiter opens the fridge door for no reason and hides behind it. Shawn makes a face and gets a little louder. “And secondly, if we’re talking obvious, how about you ordering extra pineapple for me? Even Gus would have had his own half of the pizza!”

Lassi just ignores him some more, but now Shawn doesn’t mind so much. He straightens his shirt and runs a hand through his hair. He checks his pocket too, for the fifth time since leaving the house, not that he’s counting, where there are two emergency condoms in midnight blue and a small bottle of lube—just in case.

His breath doesn’t smell bad and his deodorant says it has twenty-four hour protection.

The rest is just ambiance.

He turns off two of the smaller lamps, sensing more than seeing when Lassiter looks up at the lighting change. But the guy taking his order sounds easily confused, and Lassiter is too busy snapping at him to comment.

It’s a quiet house, in a quiet neighborhood. Shawn is loud even with his mouth full.

He considers, and then approaches the entertainment center. There’s a radio, and he pushes the power button fully expecting to hear Super Sounds of the Seventies and not surprised when the memory buttons are set to three classic rock stations, one station that sounds like lounge music, and two adult contemporary/easy listening/love songs after dark stations. The volume is what makes him jump back and cover his ears.

He yanks the volume knob at the initial blast and turns around to give Lassiter his best _Dude!_ face.

“Not even Tom Jones listens to Tom Jones at that volume,” he adds, only to trail off when he realizes that Lassi has hung up and is actually listening to him again. Listening to him…or watching him…or just stripping away every item of Shawn’s clothing with his eyes until Shawn is probably only wearing socks.

He blinks, pushing out a breath. Lassiter blinks in return, tries to look down.

Yeah, they are waiting for pizza. That’s exactly it. Pizza is what they are dying for. Pizza. They’re having a quiet evening at home. Just the two of them. At home. Alone. In Lassiter’s house. Shawn even has lube.

Which, yes, isn’t so much for pizza. He _is_ hungry, but Lassi’s eyes are very big and very blue, and Shawn knows he looks good in his green shirt, that Lassi likes him in green, but he likes Shawn better out of it. Except there’s a reason he’s not already naked, a good reason, even if Shawn can’t recall it right now even with his memory, and his muscles are going weak on him again, and his skin is flushed and hot, and Lassiter is starting to look pink all over.

Tasty pink. Like frosting on a wedding cake. A nice match to the white and blue flecked tie and the gray and black hair Shawn had claimed a long time ago in that bathroom.

His mouth opens, his tongue slipping out to wet his dry lips, and he must actually be psychic because he can actually _feel_ Lassiter focus on his mouth.

He breathes out, loud, and long, and shuddering. Shawn shuts up, looks over, leans in, waiting.

“Shawn,” Carlton starts and doesn’t even try to look startled this time when Shawn launches himself at him.

This isn’t even the girl behavior. Shawn doesn’t know what it is. He knows he ought to be calling the shots, that he would have if this had been one of his past encounters. But there were people who took minutes to seduce and then people like Lassi, who took months. Years maybe.

The last thought stops him in his tracks, barely bumping into Lassiter’s feet when Lassiter jerks into an even straighter position, eyes wide as though maybe he’d thought Shawn had been about to attack him.

He _should_ be attacking Lassiter. There’s nothing stopping him. In fact, Lassi is starting to frown, clearly wondering why he isn’t. It goes from a frown to a full-on scowl in the time it takes for the guitar solo in “Right Here Waiting” to end and then the blue in Lassiter’s eyes chills over.

He’s going to pull back. Some things Shawn can still predict with his usual accuracy, like how easy it would be to destroy all this. Because Lassiter doesn’t have a lot of faith in him, and to be honest, Shawn isn’t really sure if he has any faith in himself either. If he did, there probably wouldn’t be this herd…flock…group of butterflies in his stomach.

He could piss Lassi off, make him take charge, just like that. It would be as easy as taking candy from a Lassiter. But he can’t seem to move, or speak, and even though it’s kind of weird, wishes Gus were here to tell him what he’s supposed to do. Because this matters, and Gus knows about things that matter.

“Change your mind, Spencer?” Lassiter’s hurt. His icy gaze rakes over his body, hesitating for a moment when Shawn’s eyebrows draw together. Shawn swallows, but still there’s nothing he can think to say, at least not anything that isn’t way too cheesy or way too smartass, and even though his palms are itching, his hands aren’t reaching out. “Nothing to say?” That one actually makes Lassi angle his head to one side, a strange expression crossing his face, and Shawn has the brief and ridiculous thought that Lassiter is having a vision.

“It’s not like you not to say something you think is witty, Spencer.” Lassiter is reasoning out loud, or trying to be insulting. Shawn frowns even harder. Lassi lifts his chin but doesn’t back off like he’s supposed to be doing. “I feel like I’m watching _Goonies_ and Mouth has gone quiet.” Carlton pauses at the way Shawn sucks in a breath. “Should I be suspicious? That kid only shut up when he had a mouthful of treasure.”

And when he gave Stef mouth-to-mouth under the water to save her life in the deleted scenes on the special edition. Shawn could add that part, but then he never would have guessed that being compared to a Corey would make him want to perform mouth-to-mouth on Carlton Lassiter. If anything, it should piss him off, even if it does make Gus Corey Haim.

Instead, Shawn shifts, knowing he shouldn’t be smiling, but there it is on his face anyway. Lassi isn’t exactly friendly-looking, but that’s only because he doesn’t understand the power of a _Goonies_ reference.

“Lassi, I will totally be the Corey Feldman to your Martha Plimpton.” He ignores the confused–sounding noise in the other man’s throat as Lassiter starts to ask what in the name of justice he’s talking about. He ignores the tangle of nerves in his stomach. He even tries to ignore the Paula Abdul ballad starting in the background.

Lassi breathes out. One small, startled slip of air that Shawn inhales before he presses their lips together. He doesn’t lift his hands to bring Carlton closer, or to hold him steady. He only sways at the first sharp pang through his middle, and then it’s Carlton’s hands sliding over his jaw, the back of his neck.

It doesn’t hurt, it’s not even rough, but something burns at the contact anyway. He licks Lassiter’s lips apart, and swallows the soft, grumbling, frustrated noise that Lassi makes. Lassiter’s long fingers tighten their hold, just for a second, and the _rush rush hurry hurry lover come to me_ heat through Shawn’s body at that shouldn’t be surprising anymore.

He wants to let Lassi know that this makes him the girl, being Stef and all, but no way is he pulling his mouth away. His hands actually curl at the thought, and no, he’s not sure when he grabbed hold of Lassiter’s coat, but there it is, crumpled and stiff between his fingers. In the way.

He pushes it away, sliding his hands over Lassiter’s chest, around his shoulders, which are all as warm as he remembers. Not something he’s going to forget, ever, even if he could. He pulls harder when the coat doesn’t go anywhere; Lassiter’s arms are too high, the inside pocket catching on his gun.

Lassiter is still carrying.

Shawn’s brain stalls, then jumps forward at the realization, taking his body with it. His hands splay out to absorb all the flat heat of Carlton’s chest, shoving a little when Carlton makes another noise against his mouth. This one is shocked, but not angry, not anymore. It’s how Shawn sounds when Carlton presses him into something, and Shawn moves again, sliding their bodies together, crushing Carlton against the counter.

His fingers trace the lines of the holster, just for a second, and then he licks at Carlton’s mouth again, swallowing his tongue, his air. It feels good to have Carlton trapped, his hands sliding to Shawn’s shoulders without pushing him away, his hips inching up enough for Shawn to know he’s aroused already.

His vision is black with dots of light, bursts behind his eyes. They aren’t quite fireworks, not yet, but he can feel their heat shivering across his skin. The whole lower half of his body is throbbing, Little Shawn hard and rubbing rough against his boxers when he moves.

He wants to put a hand down, free himself, free Lassi, just wants cold air and the slick surface of his palm to make them both so happy, but his hands have already moved up to grip the short ends of Carlton’s hair which has finally grown back to the length he likes. One small tug and Carlton is even closer, pushing away from the counter to kiss him back, pressing hard when he can’t breathe either.

This totally isn’t what he’d planned, but Shawn might have lost his cool somewhere around _extra pineapple_. His chest aches, his back is arched painfully tight, and still he’s moving, holding Carlton’s mouth against his, his hips twitching up for more friction.

It’s Carlton who finally yanks back, his head lifting so much Shawn’s hands fall. Shawn opens his eyes to memorize the picture he makes, his stupid hair mussed, his lips red and parted as he struggles to catch his breath. He’s not exactly frowning. If anything he just seems lost, his face expressing wonder at just how Shawn had gone from not being able to speak to humping him against the counter.

Shawn’s pretty sure any answer he tries to give would be ridiculous, and that if he tried, Lassi would smirk. He sucks in air to try anyway, only to lose it when Lassiter blinks and growls his name. His first name.

“Shawn.” Long fingers wrinkle his brand-new alligator shirt as Shawn gets hauled back, as rough and familiar as their second kiss, Carlton’s mouth on his and his only thought is _sweetCarltonyes_.

There are those fireworks now, but the scantily-clad angels are gone which is good, because he’s trying to concentrate on getting Lassiter that naked. His hands slip and flail, grasping at the blue and white tie, and he can’t stop a shiver when it slides against his wrists. His blood is pounding. His body. There’s a shirt too, and another beneath that, both in his way.

He’s easy in comparison, and Lassi is a dirty cheater, his mouth wet and hungry, his hands quick to disappear underneath Shawn’s one shirt. Warm, dry hands, up over his chest, across his nipples. Those hands tremble against him for a second, and there’s another lost opportunity for a joke.

Shawn opens his mouth, pulling hard on that tie with both hands, making Carlton curse in a crushed mumble. He wonders if says that he wants the tie everywhere on him if Carlton will be confused, or if he’ll get it, or if this is what Carlton wants. But at the front there are all these flashing lights and sizzling heat and Carlton’s hands pushing up his shirt.

The air is cool, almost cold after so much bodily contact. Shawn shudders at the pull against his shoulders and lifts his arms, stumbling back at the force of it, barely noticing when his shirt gets thrown to the floor, because Lass is watching him again.

Lassi’s suit is rumpled, but still in place. The coat slides open as he moves away from the counter, just enough for Shawn to catch another glimpse of the holster. Lassiter’s eyes are bright, on the right side of dazed and confused.

He’ll take the floor; he can barely even remember whatever else it was that Lassi had wanted. He’ll take the floor, now, Lassi bent over him, breathing heavy into the back of his neck, angry and quick.

Lassiter’s belt buckle is in his hand before Shawn knows he’s stepped back. Or maybe Carlton moved forward, it doesn’t really matter. He knows if he thinks, if he concentrates, he’ll be able to remember, but when he slides the buckle loose and hears the jangle of Lassiter’s fly opening, Lassiter breathes hard against his neck, and concentrating isn’t an option anymore.

“Spencer…” It’s some sort of warning that Carlton is using his last name again. His hands push down on Shawn’s hips, another warning, except that it brings them together, Shawn’s bare skin against a lot of skinny cop, still in that suit, and it just ends with Shawn sucking hard on Carlton’s throat. Just above the collar, just above his tie.

He wants that tie around his wrists, tight so he can’t move, can’t run away, can’t do anything but feel Lassi take him like he’d done to Hornstock.

The belt jangles again, and for a dizzy second Carlton stumbles. He swears, though Shawn is the one hitting something, wincing at his legs bumping into what he thinks is the coffee table. They ought to fall, but Carlton’s got an arm around his back, and then Shawn’s already moving on to the coat.

“A full suit, really?” is what he wants to ask, and will, as soon as he can get his mouth off Lassiter’s skin, as soon as he can stop thinking other thing, imagining the tie around his eyes, not being able to _see_ anything for once, just feeling Lassi’s hands on him.

Carlton tastes clean, his jaw as smooth as Shawn’s is rough, he doesn’t seem to mind though. He pants against Shawn’s ear but lets Shawn shove the coat away. It hits the floor under their feet. Another obstacle.

Shawn works the shirt buttons while Carlton steers them around it, focused on getting them somewhere, anywhere with enough room really.

“The floor,” Shawn suggests, okay, demands, when he gets the shirt open to the neck, and he can see the white undershirt and hints of sternum bush, and the tie. He can barely look at the tie.

“What?” Is all Lassiter gets out before he grunts, hard. His eyes get really wide too, and Shawn has to take a second to realize that they have run into the wall leading to the short hallway. Well, Lassi has. His mouth opens like he can’t quite catch his breath and then he’s frowning.

“Son of a bitch,” he swears breathlessly, then blinks a few times, glancing around like he can’t tell how they got there or what happened. Shawn looks too, identifying cause and effect in one second. Then he goes back to getting his hands under Lassiter’s undershirt, feeling a lot like he ought to find a bra under there after all this work.

Lassiter’s breath hisses out, but he doesn’t slap his hands away, not this time. Shawn looks up once to see Lassi’s frown in place, then lowers his head, breathing heavily into Lassi’s chest.

“…How?” Carlton asks the room, the word rumbling under Shawn’s fingers. Shawn looks down again, staring for a moment at the bare hairy legs he can’t recall seeing before, not in any other of their frantic groping sessions. The boxers are a boring white, no surprise there, even if his mouth goes a little drier at Lassiter’s obvious erection.

“What?” Shawn has a feeling that this question is directed at him. Lassiter is kind of a mess and Shawn’s not even close to being done with him. But he doesn’t look up. There’s a lot in that question, like it’s a short version of the usual Lassiter, “What the hell, Spencer?” and if he looks up, Shawn will want to answer.

That now that he can, he wants to touch Lassi everywhere. That he likes to drive him crazy. That he meant it before when he realized that he kind of wants to do whatever Lassiter tells him to do, even if just _thinking_ that is enough to make him want to run again. That if he stops now all those words that haven been nervously hopping around in his stomach are going to come exploding out, possibly in vomit form, which is extremely not sexy.

He tries a look from under his lashes, enough for him to see that Carlton’s gaze is sharp on his face and getting sharper the longer Shawn stands there without speaking. Shawn licks his lips, tries a grin.

“See now Lassi, we need to get these pants off you.” He pats Carlton’s stomach and then dips his fingers underneath the elastic waistband of his boxers when Carlton opens his mouth. The skin is damp there, hot, and Carlton shudders against the wall. Shawn’s hands clench. He’s so close. He could just keep pushing.

He wants to, and he can make Lassi want it too. He tries a grin again, but looking down is enough to make him drop. “You…” He can’t breathe for a second, sinking down onto his knees in the soft carpet of Lassi’s living room. “You shouldn’t be so impatient next time.”

There’s a small sound from above, like maybe Lassiter is thinking about protesting that one. Not that he actually gets a word out until Shawn puts a hand on his leg.

“Crap.” That could possibly be a reference to Shawn’s comment, but somehow Shawn doesn’t think it is.

Lassiter’s not a shorts kind of guy outside of Shawn’s Magnum fantasies, so it’s not surprising that he could blend in with the Goth set as long as he could stand the music, but Shawn can trace veins the skin is so pale, follows one with his fingertip until it gets lost in Lassiter’s pants, tangled at his feet.

Goosebumps spring up at the one touch, and Shawn doesn’t know why he’s staring, why he cares, but he can’t look away from them. His hands are busy tearing away the pants, pausing at Lassiter’s shoes when they get in the way.

Lassiter is breathing hard. Shawn can’t look up.

“You need to look into slip ons,” he tries a joke, only it doesn’t work, because Lassi just shifts from one leg to another, stepping out of his shoes even though they’re still tied.

“That easier for you, Spencer?” If Lassi is trying to have his usual attitude, it’s totally not working. His pants are still wrapped around his legs, trapped under his feet, and Shawn watches himself reach out to smooth those JCPenney’s pants out of the way, pushing down the black socks too.

He really doesn’t know why he’s looking at Lassiter’s feet, except that he’s never seen them before. They’re bony and there’s hair on his toes. Shawn really doesn’t mind, even though it means he’ll have issues with Lassiter wearing sandals. Weird.

His finger finds the vein again, and when he traces it back up, Lassiter shivers. This time Shawn does look up, lifting his head part of the way. He can see Lassiter’s hands, curled up at his sides, the ends of his dress shirt, his boxers. The pose reminds him of H-stock, that night, thinking he would never get this.

His mouth hits Lassiter’s thigh first, just above his knee. The way his heart is beating feels like panic, like running from Scary Sherry. Lassi makes that noise again, confused and cranky; he’s going to say something.

Shawn moves up, placing his hands carefully on Lassiter’s upper thighs. His lips are dry. He can’t breathe. He wants to say that this is not what it is, wants to say anything, but he leans forward and feels his throat lock up at the soft hitch in Lassiter’s breath. He wonders if Lassi’s eyes are open, then shuts his.

His face is hot, though not nearly as hot as what’s in front of him, and he slides his mouth open, sucking Lassiter’s cock through his boxers.

Lassiter hits the wall. He’s just surprised, turned on, but Shawn follows him, his hands gripping too hard to keep him still. He stretches his neck, sucks again, harder, through fabric already wet and thin. Little Lassi swells against his lips.

The sound of Lassiter swallowing is louder than his heartbeat. “Jesus Christ.” His voice has an edge, like Shawn could make him come from just that, like Shawn had surprised him. He’s so hard at the thought, just like he was before, when he had wanted to be everything to Lassiter and blamed it on the vodka, when he’d thought about laying down on that gross floor and letting Lassiter fuck him and said it was the strip club. When he’d begged to say “Carlton”.

The butterflies have butterflies now. His chest is locked. His dick aching.

Lassi’s fingers don’t slip gently into his hair, they settle on his shoulder, dig into the bones for a moment when Shawn rubs his face against the hard length of him, licks at the wet spot he’s created.

“Spencer,” Lass warns him, like in that strip club bathroom, and Shawn opens his eyes. He’s trembling, holding Lassiter tight enough to make him lose circulation. He needs a joke here, anything, but Lassiter moves his thumb, slides it under his ear and Shawn can’t help looking up even though it’s very possible that everything is on his face and even someone like Lassiter should see it.

“Spencer.” Lassiter pushes out his name, not angry, his eyes round and blue.

He’s Spencer again, not Shawn, and even knowing he ought to play it off, Shawn shudders. He ducks his head and feels Lassiter’s fingers spread wide across his shoulder. The words carry through Lassiter to him. He feels more than hears them, echoing over a smooth-voiced DJ introducing a new song.

“Spencer if you don’t knock it off, we’re never going to make it to the bedroom.”

They are not the words that anyone would expect from someone being offered a blow job. Which might be why Shawn blinks and then frowns up at Carlton, who frowns right back down at him. He even has that line between his eyes that Shawn is starting to think of as his since he causes it more than anyone or anything else.

He could kiss Carlton right now. He clears his throat instead and then leans back.

“Dude.” It’s suddenly easy to shake his head and fake hurt feelings again. “That is not gratitude I hear.”

Lassiter’s hand is still at his neck, and his thumb barely touches Shawn’s earlobe. It’s so light he trembles. It’s the same reaction he has to Carlton’s voice, which has gotten rough.

“You blackmailed me into three dates for this,” Carlton points out. The fact that he is now also counting the lunch/make out session at the Reenactment as a date makes Shawn lean against his hand, just for a second, and think about saying something about how Lassiter isn’t as stupid as his taste in music would imply. But Lassiter coughs, and interrupts his thought right in the middle of a chorus of _don’t leave me this ways_. “We doing this or what?” His blush is probably real. It’s almost hard to believe that he’s playing the grumpy bear for Shawn’s benefit.

Except that his gaze is unsteady, so Shawn’s pretty sure he is. His Lassiter is a sweet, sour-faced liar.

There’s that flip-flopping, cliff-diving, sensation in his stomach, but he sticks up a hand. He doesn’t need to bat his eyelashes, but does it anyway, enjoying Lassi’s snort as the other man yanks him up.

The sound of his knees cracking startles him. For a second Shawn looks down at his own legs, and then scowls when he looks back up to find Lassiter smirking.

It’s probably just the weather affecting his joints. Lassi can think whatever he wants; Shawn can always wipe that look off his face.

There are two ways to do that. Shawn takes a step, then lifts his head and tries a smirk of his own when his feet seem to get stuck in the carpeting. “Don’t tell me you’re only up for one round, Lassiface?” It’s really, really difficult not to laugh or place any emphasis on the word “up”. It’s a good thing he doesn’t try.

With that, he turns his back on Lass and steps around him. It’s a short hallway, with a small door that must be a closet and another opened door that has to lead to the bedroom.

The bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

Shawn’s mouth is suddenly turned into Death Valley. There’s an ache at his back, in his chest. He can’t breathe, and then he can, his breath coming fast and loud when Lassiter’s hand grabs his shoulder and forces him around, his back up against the wall.

They’re next to the bedroom doorway, and Lassiter presses into his space with the same ease that Shawn’s has always pressed into his.

It’s not painful. It’s not even a tight hold. Shawn could leave if he wants. He could even struggle, if he wants to make his dad happy by bringing back all those fighting lessons.

Fierce blue eyes pin Shawn for a moment while he considers, sweeping up and down so thoroughly that Shawn is wondering if Lassiter is memorizing _him_ , and then Lassiter arches one eyebrow. His voice is so quiet that Shawn feels another stab of panic.

“Yeah, I thought so.” Carlton pulls his hands away but doesn’t step back. Shawn scowls, waving his hands dramatically at the hallway, at the bedroom, his bare chest. Shawn’s skin is cold without Lassi touching him. Not that Lassi cares; he keeps on staring, disappointed and not even a tiny bit surprised.

“Thought so, what?” He’s not sure that came out correctly, and now _his_ voice is the one getting high and rough and his gaze keeps darting around, trying to read the lack of color in Lassi’s cheeks, the glint in his eyes. He can’t tell if Lassi means it, no matter how much he looks.

“That you’d chicken out.” Lassiter reaches out and pokes him once in time to Shawn’s gasp. His eyes are hard. “That when it comes down to it, Spencer, you’re a scared little kid.”

“Scared?” His voice is starting to sound like a high-pitched Burton Guster squeal of fear, which might possibly prove what Lass had just said, not that Shawn would ever ever ever admit that out loud. “Of _you_?” He waves his hands again, broken wrist and all, in a big, distracting gesture that Lassiter has already seen too many times for it to work. He decides to go with deliberately misunderstanding. “There’s no way I’m afraid of somebody with a roller skate anthem blasting from his speakers.” But he can still hear it, over and over, _don’t leave me this way_.

It’s only when Lassiter moves, leaning in just an inch, that Shawn sees his hands as they reach out to rest on Carlton’s chest. It’s like he can’t help himself. His fingers flick against the necktie, the only way he’s ever done this, kinky and rough. His hands are shaking.

Carlton breathes out, as hot and wet as always, driving Shawn crazy because it means his lanky body is shifting forward to wrap around him.

“That’s…” Ridiculous. Insane. Yet he is still talking. Carlton is frowning at him, and even knowing it’s his interrogation face doesn’t make Shawn shut up. “Why would I…?”

“Because…” For the first time, Carlton looks away. He yanks at his tie, and Shawn’s hands fly up on their own, smoothing it back down. Carlton glances back sharply up at him and then sucks in a breath.

“Because this isn’t just for tonight, is it?” That’s what a _normal_ person might have said, if every _telenovela_ Shawn has ever watched repeatedly on his Tivo and every teen romantic comedy in his DVD collection was correct. _Lassi_ bats away Shawn’s hands to yank at the knot on his tie again and then grunts with all the grouchy nervousness Shawn would expect from a frustrated, forty-ish, almost-divorced Irish detective. “Because if you run out of here tomorrow morning the way you run away from everything else, I’ll hunt you down and bring you back myself just to make you explain why. And you know it.”

Shawn immediately opens his mouth. After all, he’s pretty sure could escape Lassiter’s clutches without too much work. On the other hand, he’ll have to run for a long, long time, because Lassiter is a pro at obsessive dedication. Then of course there’s the fact that Shawn really likes it when Lassiter catches him.

“Well, obviously I can’t run away,” he says at last, pausing at the way Lassiter stills. “You drove.” Even with the tension keeping him against the wall, the need making him reach out so his hands can stay anywhere on Lassiter, it’s worth it for Lassiter’s glower.

For a long time, a minute at least, neither of them moves. It’s warm, not hot, not exactly, and familiar even without threats being growled into his ear. Lassiter’s gaze is on his face, and that ought to make him nervous. Shawn’s eyes keep traveling up and then back down which is a dead giveaway of guilt. Not that he’s going to say anything in response to Lassi’s Double Dog Dare. That would be careless.

Then he hears himself.

“Besides, you couldn’t catch me. I’d _see_ you coming…” Well, the rules _are_ very explicit on daring back. He adds a little swirling motion at his head just to make Lassiter’s eyes narrow, and that’s all it takes to have Carlton’s hands on his shoulders, holding him to the wall. It’s hot now. Shawn’s brain lingers on that word, the feeling. Hot.

It only last for a second, as long as he can keep from moving, and then Lassiter’s big, awesome hands slide down his arms and Shawn’s normal but also awesome hands are pushing Lassi’s clothes out of the way before wandering down his stomach. He leans in right as Lassiter does, and gasps at Lassiter’s lips against his ear.

“There’s no such thing as psychics.” The growl has returned. Shawn just breathes into Lassiter’s neck and tries to sound innocent and not like a guy with a rocket in his pocket who might throw up.

“Then why do I know what you’re thinking?”

“I’m an aroused man.” Lassiter pushes out a few rumbly words and Shawn snorts until he drops one hand a little further down and realizes that that was not a joke. Lassi is still sporting wood, even after all of Shawn’s hesitating…teasing. After all of Shawn’s _teasing_ because Shawn isn’t afraid. Shawn’s eyebrows go up, and then his palm curls around the stiff length, liking the swell and heat, the way Lassiter’s voice gets tight. He leans in ever more. Shawn’s hearts thumps at his serious tone. “My thoughts should be easy to read.”

The panicked swoop in his gut drops to a small flutter. Lassi’s pulse is quick against his cheek. It will be quick against his mouth too, if he turns. Shawn really wants to turn. So he does. Lassiter lets him.

Shawn stops with his lips to Lassi’s throat, then takes a deep breath.

“Thenwhyarewestillouthere?” he gets out in a rushed whisper and feels a line form between his eyes when Lassiter’s body goes stiff. Shawn half-ducks back right as Lassiter gives a snort. It’s not psychic to read from that that Lassiter thinks he’s crazy, since Shawn’s the reason they are still out in the hallway. Shawn curls his fingers into Lassi’s skin and doesn’t move.

“Spencer…?” Carlton raises his head at last, stares at him because that’s all Shawn has said for a while, and a silent Shawn seems to freak him out.

Shawn licks his lips, not that it does anything to ease his seriously dry mouth. Then he steps out of his shoes and kicks his sneakers to the side.

Lassiter works his jaw, his gaze like the ocean in Cabo. He’s about half a second from crossing his arms and waiting it out, hard dick or not. It must be a skill men learn at his advanced age.

Shawn swallows the second his bare feet are wiggling in the carpet, and then drops his head to put his mouth to Lassiter’s chest. He has to hold Lassi’s clothes out of the way, not that he cares. For a moment the scent is distracting, sweat and cheap cologne, and then it’s all taste, and Lassiter groaning under his tongue.

With one hand on Lassiter’s shirts, Shawn slips the other past the waistband of Carlton’s boxers. He finds short hair and slick skin. Heat. And a nice-sized erection with his name on it. It’s his, if he wants it.

“Lassi,” he whispers around a nipple, and Lassi jumps. His hand goes out, holding them against the wall; Shawn can feel the doorway at his back when Carlton leans in. Very hot, his mind loops around again. He’s _very_ hot all over now, his heart bouncing all over the place, and there might _actually_ be a fire down in his soul.

Shawn’s fingers grasp another handful of Carlton’s clothes and Carlton comes closer on his own, making noises when Shawn wrinkles his nose in all that chest hair and then moves his mouth up to around his collarbone, to what skin he can get to.

There’s a blur of movement Shawn can just see from the corner of his eye and then he’s up and talking in a voice way too high and fast.

“Don’t!” he orders and Lassi freezes with his hand at the knot of his tie. “Don’t take it off.” He’s giving away too much again, has to be smooth, to remember who he is. He clears his throat, and works a coy smile as he makes his hand toy with the wrinkled shirts, the holster and tie. “Leave it on…”

There’s a big line between Lassiter eyebrows for a moment, and he’s definitely looking again. It’s possibly too late for any kind of distraction, even a confession that forceful cop-types do it for him. Shawn tries a smile that should work on everyone but Henry and Chief Vick. Lassi angles his head to one side, for once his expressive face not being expressive at all. Shawn can’t read anything on it, at least not anything but the lust that was already there.

Then Lassi shrugs.

“I already knew you were a freak, Spencer,” is all he says, and then his hands are down at Shawn’s waistline, sliding toward the front, the fly. They’re nice and warm, leaving trails of heat that make Shawn shiver. They’re nothing to the fire inside, the glowing colors behind his eyes. Like a big gay rainbow. And while he’s trying to figure that out, just when he’d gotten so gay that there are rainbow bridges straight out of the Care Bears in his brain, Lassiter pops the button on his jeans.

He’s not even making the smallest move to remove his shirts and holster, no matter how much they must be in the way. He’s not even trying to do it just to spite Shawn. He’s frowning, focusing on getting the zipper down when he can’t see it, sliding his other hand to the small of Shawn’s back.

Shawn has some questions, questions like, just like that? Just like that Lassiter is doing what he wants, without any convincing at all? But he also has some more demands, and he can’t stop moving his hands.

Lassi’s chest and stomach aren’t cut, but they’re fit enough, flat, strong, tense muscle. His hair is springy, Shawn scrapes his fingers through his impressive fur, sliding forward at Lassiter’s soft growl. There’s almost no space between them now, but his hands are still working, sliding the proper cotton undershirt back down, moving on to the patches of bare skin, the covered width of his shoulders. He curls his fingers around the worn leather of the holster when Lassiter undoes his fly and slides a hand down his boxers.

They both hit the wall, probably crushing Lassi’s hand, not that either of them stops or seems to care. Shawn just grabs on tight enough to climb Lass if he wants and lays his head back. Lassi reads his mind, bending slightly to kiss along his exposed throat, scruff and all.

Everything is hot and sticky, and Lassiter isn’t the only one breathing hard, panting over the music, in time with it. The gun is digging into his chest, and he’d totally complain about it if he weren’t busy gasping out Carlton’s name in the direction of that rainbow, which is covered in butterflies, which are all flying away, because Lassi hasn’t made the slightest move to do anything but what Shawn asked him to do.

“Shawn,” Lassiter is answering him, shifting forward to press him to the wall. Shawn’s back to being the girl again, because if he could, if he were lighter and more flexible, he’d jump up and wrap his legs around Carlton and fuck him right here.

He shifts too, working his legs apart a little, sliding his hands off the holster so he can grip handfuls of Lassiter’s hair when Lassiter strokes his dick. His hand is slick, large, strong. There’s a big gay explosion that rockets through Shawn’s skin out through his mouth whenever that hand touches him. Strobe lights. Rainbows. A parade pounding where his heart used to be.

Lassi grunts at each sharp tug to his hair, and then it’s not his hand driving Shawn crazy, it’s his body. All of it, up against him, cock harder than that gun. His hands shove Shawn’s jeans down his hips just enough, his boxers feel rough until Shawn pushes them down too, one side at a time, rushing to get his hands back to Lassi’s hair, his neck, anywhere he can feel skin. The shirts are in his way, and with the tie on he can’t remove them.

“Shawn.” This time Carlton isn’t answering any of the random stuff Shawn is shouting out and Shawn opens his eyes, catching a glimpse of Carlton’s dark hair sticking up in wild tufts. Then he shuts his eyes again, letting out a grunt of his own when Carlton first pushes against him. He thrusts up, even if they are in the hallway, liking how one of Carlton’s hands slides off him and hits the wall. He _really_ likes surprising Carlton.

“Still feel like you’re babysitting and not getting paid?” he tries a seductive purr, turning his head as Carlton lifts his. Shawn can feel the stare and opens his eyes just to see the confusion. Carlton is flushed, his mouth darker from brushing against Shawn’s stubble, his gaze bright.

Shawn had been going to smirk at him, especially for not getting the _Goonies_ joke this time, but with Carlton looking like that, he leans back again, wets his lips.

“You really are a freak,” Carlton answers at last, as easily pissed off as ever, even with their bodies tight and sweaty, with Shawn dropping one hand to fit between them. Shawn shifts too, burning in his mind, in his chest, everywhere Carlton has touched him. His stomach is just an ache now, the good kind, and he brushes a thumb across the head of his dick before doing the same to Lassipants.

Lassi still has one hand on the wall, but the other flexes at Shawn’s hip, impatient, startled, and it’s only when he blinks that he realizes Carlton has been looking, that he’s been looking back, for a while now.

He sucks in a breath, then runs his thumb under the crown. Lassi’s grip changes to a squeeze, strong enough to bruise, and Shawn’s hears himself panting, talking, saying words just to make the line between Lassi’s eyes come back, just wanting to get right, right now. He’s really, really had enough of groping in closets and bathrooms, of thinking about this in the shower, of closing his eyes and seeing Lassi with someone else.

If he concentrates he can recall it, but who wants to do that with this much Lassiter wrapped around them? His mind is a jumble of past images, of too much heat building between them, a lot of need.

“I want you everywhere because I know you won’t…” he admits part of the truth, not making sense even to himself, pushing forward so he can mumble it into Carlton’s neck. That quick pulse is still there, and he yanks on the stupid collar, the stupid tie, until his mouth can press against it, taste it. Those hands stroke down his back.

The grumbling sound means Lass doesn’t get it, or can’t hear. Shawn shakes his head, the shirt scratching his cheek. He wants Lassiter naked. He wants to be naked. He wants lots of nakedness. As quickly as possible.

“Come on, Lass, take me down to Paradise City,” he tries, and smiles when the hands on him stop moving. It’s possible Lassiter doesn’t believe him, as though _Shawn_ is the tease here when Lassiter has been giving him the hot _fuck you/I want to_ stares for a year now and then done nothing about it.

Well, he’d screwed someone else. He’d pressed Hornstock into his own desk and made him moan, made him beg and called him Spencer for doing it. Spencer, with his dick in his ass.

He wants that too.

Shawn breaks away at the thought, only blinking a little at how Lassi lets him go, at how much darker everything seems in the hallway.

He doesn’t look over as he moves, slipping into the bedroom and flipping the light switch. Bathroom to one side. Closet. Shelves. Slippers on the floor, water on the nightstand. His bed. King-sized of course, dark blue bedding, the most color in the whole room.

Shawn pulls the spare supplies out of his pocket and grins a little to see that the condom colors match the bedspread. Not a surprise, but he’s more than cool with some things about Lassiter staying predictable, being _there_ forever.

There’s motion behind him and he turns to face Lassi, who has stopped in the doorway, frowning like he needs more fiber in his diet. He looks like he has a few questions of his own.

“If you’re trying to look fierce and concerned, it’s not going to work.” Shawn hums along to fantastic Eighties love song playing in the living room. Lassiter blinks and then looks down when Shawn waves at him. His normally flat hair is a mess, his skin red in patches from Shawn’s mouth, his clothing pushed up and wrinkled, his legs bare and his boxers shoved down and open, soaked at the crotch. Then of course there is his dick, which Shawn might start calling a boner just to freak Lassi out some more with his immaturity.

Now that Shawn’s butterflies are gone, it figures that Lassiter would go all worried on him. His face and neck are turning slightly pink, but he doesn’t try to cover himself up. And once he’s sees that Shawn isn’t moving, he steps forward with his chin up. Shawn instantly smiles wide in response, bouncing and bumping into the bed.

Carlton’s eyes follow that to the lube and condoms that have magically appeared on his bedspread, and then he flicks a look at Shawn’s face. His eyebrow goes up, like he can’t help himself either.

“What?” Shawn wonders, and yanks his jeans down. Boxers too. There’s a small flutter, and then just nothing but heat at the way Carlton’s gaze fastens on him. “Be prepared.” He flashes Lassi a hand gesture that looks more like something Mork did than a Boy Scout and straightens up.

“There’s no way you were ever a Boy Scout.” Carlton argues distractedly while Shawn steps out of his jeans, then sucks in a very loud breath and goes quiet.

“Scout’s Honor.” Shawn tries the hand thing again, wondering if it’s weird that he’s naked and discussing this. Lassiter just lifts his chin, so Shawn shrugs. “It was a small troop. Just me and Gus…and Henry.” His nose itches and he’s really, really horny. He looks into Lassi’s eyes. “Do you really want to talk about Scouts now?”

Lassi exhales through his nose. “No.” His shoulders are straight, as though something is taking a lot of effort, but he’s keeping his gaze on Shawn’s face. He’s watching. Shawn would let him, but he can only wait so long.

“Lassi…” The bedroom is warm, but he can still feel goosebumps on his arms. His skin is damp, the sweat drying, his body marked with all sorts of dull pains from Lassiter’s hands and mouth. He’s looking forward to more.

He touches himself, moves his hand across his hip and then down, because Carlton’s already seen that, and liked it, and because it feels fucking _good_. He makes a little noise at the light pressure and Lassi’s words get caught in his throat. Shawn almost can’t smile. “Do you want me to beg?”

“Not right now.” Carlton moves without hesitating this time, and Shawn jerks his head up at the first long sweep of Lassiter’s hands over his body. His totally naked body. And while it’s no fair that he’s naked and Carlton isn’t, it still feels awesome to have the scratch of fabric against his chest when Carlton gets close, his breath rushing down everywhere, his hands sliding down his back, not stopping at his ass.

Lassi makes a noise, or maybe Shawn does, it’s hard to say. But Shawn is the one who twists, wriggling just a little to make Lassiter huff. He can’t breathe either, his body too heavy, too hot.

Lassiter swears, a nice Catholic swear, then adds to it. “Shawn,” he warns, as if Shawn is going to end this now with too much sexy wiggling. They have at least half an hour until the pizza gets there and he hasn’t waited months just to have Lassi come on his leg.

He grabs a handful of shirt and pulls.

They hit the mattress, Lassiter’s arms instantly flying out to hold him up and off Shawn. He’s glaring down the second he can. Shawn grins back at him then stretches out. It feels like the Reenactment all over again, only better, since he’s got a lot of bare skin to feel each swipe of Lassiter’s hands as Lassi struggles to stay up.

He doesn’t really know why Carlton is bothering. They’re halfway there already.

He raises his head, sucking hard on Carlton’s Adam’s apple, and Carlton freezes, maybe finally getting that Shawn has never once minded getting pressed into anything by Carlton’s weight, especially not a bed. He really doesn’t think a girl would either. Not a girl with any brains. Not that any of them are going to get the chance. Shawn can be all the girl he needs.

The opened shirt is trailing down, tickling his stomach. Shawn shifts up, changing position enough to get gangly Irish legs on either side of him, so he can push up his hips and slide their cocks together. He reaches up at the same time, grabbing hold of Carlton’s shoulders and shutting his eyes at the way a surprised Lassi immediately crashes down on top of him.

Then he shifts his hips again and moans for the world to hear. “Yes, Lassi, don’t stop!”

The radio should drown him out anyway. There’s a muffled exclamation against his neck, and then Lassiter’s head is up. Shawn runs his hands down as much as Lassi’s back as he can reach and then drags them back, so ready to be Sharon Stone, if only that stupid shirt wasn’t in his way.

“For the sake of sweet justice, Lassi, will you take those clothes _off_?” he demands and ignores the sharp, annoyed glare Lassi sends his way. It doesn’t mean anything anyway since Lassi’s cock twitches at his tone.

“Some kind of weirdo.” Carlton snaps at him a second later, glaring even harder when he scoots back onto his knees and sees Shawn grinning at him.

He takes the gun out first, placing that carefully on the nightstand. Then the holster, though after shrugging that off, he drops it to the floor. When he reaches his tie, Shawn reaches up, tugging the knot himself until his hands trails down to wrap around its length.

He pulls his hand away slowly.

“Treat that ten dollar tie nicely.” Shawn instructs him, taking his eyes off the flecked pattern with effort. He doesn’t try to smile, though he should. “I have plans for it later.”

Lassi freezes at the first part, his mouth falling open. His chest moves as he inhales, and then he loosens the knot more and slides it down.

He puts it on his nightstand just as carefully as he’d set down his gun and turns back.

“You want to tie me up and blindfold me?” He’s quiet, so quiet Shawn would have missed it if everything Henry had ever taught him wasn’t straining to notice everything about Lassiter. He’s shocked. He’s also breathing hard. Really hard. Like he likes the idea and can’t wait for the freak-a-leek to begin hard.

Shawn leans back, frowning as seriously as he can when the entire lower half of his body is throbbing.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” he answers honestly even with his heart flip-flopping around like a drunken Lassiter on a dance floor. Just imagining the things he could do to drive a bound and blind Lassi crazy makes his mouth go dry again. In a good way.

He licks his lips and sees Carlton do the same. He pauses, then looks up into Lassiter’s eyes and watches the flash of realization come and go as Lassi gets that Shawn had wanted Lassi to tie _him_ up. Lassiter shuts his mouth, but Shawn can still see his chest moving quickly up and down.

“I just knew you were a closet kink freak,” Shawn tries that smile finally, a little out of breath too, and Carlton narrows his eyes even though Shawn hasn’t even mentioned the cuffs yet.

“You want that?” Being Carlton he has to demand it out loud. At this point, Shawn’s just amazed that _Hornstock_ hadn’t ordered _Lassi_ to shut up. He shifts and sits up, getting close enough to Lassi’s suspicious face to run his tongue over his tight lips, which, he notices, immediately soften. Carlton’s still frowning, but he reaches up to undo the last button at his collar, and doesn’t move away.

“Whatever.” Shawn attempts casual. But he’s got his hands on Lassi’s shoulders, getting that shirt off him, and his voice is low, and soft. It sounds more like a promise that way, not that he makes promises. Even Lassi has to know that, which is probably why he looks wary when he pulls back to yank the shirt off his arms. Shawn makes his eyes go as wide as they can.

“Whatever?” Carlton repeats, and Shawn doesn’t really care if Carlton does think he made a promise there—because he might have, possibly—or if Carlton thinks he’s lying—again, also possible, although he doesn’t think so. He just wants sex. Now.

“Do people your age always talk this much when attempting to get laid?” Shawn lies back down. He grabs a pillow and pulls it under his head. He might as well be comfortable. He even rests his head on his arms.

He has to move them immediately when Carlton shifts, sliding back over him. Carlton’s still not naked, down to the undershirt, the boxers, and a watch, but for once Shawn’s not going to push it. He just reaches down to Carlton’s hips and shoves the boxers down as far as he can.

“Not much talking in the men’s room?” Carlton grunts into his ear before pushing himself up. The blue has gone all hot again, the _fuck you/I want to_ mixing again into a perfect cocktail of sexiness, like a bright blue drink that comes in a big shiny glass with pineapple around the edges and gets him drunk faster than six shots of vodka. Shawn is very thirsty.

“I don’t know, you said some pretty sweet things.” He’s got Lassi’s ass under his hands. His _ass_ , which is something in itself. Something he’s definitely marrying. Someday. When he settles down, becomes one of those people who’d rather stay in than go out.

Carlton bends his head, and then there are _lips_ on his _nipple_. Shawn’s hands forget all about Carlton’s ass for the moment and bury themselves in his hair. Despite how much shellac Carlton puts in it, he must use a nice conditioner. It’s silky between his fingers.

There’s a rumble against his chest, like Carlton said something. Shawn tugs lightly on his hair and then shifts up at the quick, sharp answering feel of teeth. Not that he has anywhere to shift up to, his body slides against Carlton’s, and _Mother of all Mai Tais_ , he’s hard.

“You told me to shut up,” he goes on when after pulling in air, pushing up again when Carlton moves his head lower, finds his stomach, which is all bright, melting heat under his tongue. “Then you told me to talk. Then you said the best thing ever.” Carlton’s mouth slides over for a moment, finds his hipbone, just where he had placed his hand that first time. Shawn’s body arches up tight. He can’t breathe.

 _YespleaseLassi_ is on his tongue again, because he has the kind of almost-boyfriend who knows exactly how to make beg. To make him _want_ to beg.

“Want to know what it was?” Shawn pants when he can, and his fingers work down to Carlton’s ears, his shoulders. Carlton licks at the sweat on his skin and then snorts. His breath does all sorts of things to Shawn’s brain, so he wriggles again, pushing his legs apart, his hips up as much as he can with Lassi on top of him. Lassiter instantly moves, pushing himself back up to get his mouth under Shawn’s ear.

Shawn’s hands instantly go back to his ass and squeeze. Lassiter growls. It’s not, Shawn notes with a shiver, an angry growl. Shawn angles his head in that direction, and then away, the _yespleaseLassiohgodyes_ slipping out anyway. Lassi lifts himself a little, gets one big hand on Shawn’s hip and holds it down. Like Shawn’s been rocking against him and he can’t take it anymore. Which Shawn hasn’t—he thinks—but Lassi is still breathless and growling against his neck, so maybe he has.

“You’re not going to stop until I ask, are you?” Carlton wonders, so fiercely that Shawn can feel his teeth. It’s not a bite, not yet, so Shawn angles away again, stretching up against all the weight holding him down, and is rewarded with Lassi’s cock against his thigh. He grins at the ceiling at Lassiter’s choked off exclamation.

A moment later there’s pressure at his throat, just at the vein, sweet suction going right to his dick, making him dizzy. A badge of honor, a Lassiter hickey, and if Lassi thinks Shawn’s going anywhere when he can torment Lassiter with that at the station tomorrow, he’s crazy.

“You said Shawn,” Shawn reveals, shifting at the way the hand on his hip curls into his skin, the way Lassiter shakes his head and moves. His gaze flicks up for a second.

“Shawn,” he says, nice and low, “shut up.” Then he slides both of his hands down to Shawn’s hips and sits up.

He ought to be cold without Carlton covering him. But the man’s stare is seriously hot, studying him, _watching_. It’s everything Shawn should be ducking away from. His heart races for a moment, his stomach tightening, but he can’t help stretching out, rubbing his back along all the dark blue bedding. It isn’t like he hasn’t been obvious—one or two moments of panic aside.

Carlton just takes a deep breath, and then it’s like everything single Carlton fantasy Shawn has ever had. With one difference.

“Bend your legs, Spencer.” Lassi orders with one hand already working down his thigh. Then he pauses, smirks. “Shawn.”

Shawn’s already sliding into motion at the sound of his name, glancing up to the ceiling and then back down to Carlton.

“Finally,” he breathes out, ignoring the order to shut up since Lassi clearly hadn’t meant it, and just because Shawn reserves the right to ignore some of the things the man says. Carlton is kneeling between his legs, boxers halfway down his ass, cock in the air. He puts one hand out on Shawn’s stomach, as though Shawn is going anywhere.

“If you don’t fuck me now, I’m going to tell the entire station you listen to disco.” Possibly a more credible threat if his dick weren’t also hard between them, jerking at the idea of getting screwed into the mattress, the image, the hundred percent accurate vision of Carlton leaning over him, between his legs, blowing his mind with every down stroke.

Lassiter jaw clenches his jaw. “I already told you, Shawn…my terms.” He reaches out with his other hand without looking and Shawn’s the one who has to drag his eyes away, following the action and seeing Lassiter find the bottle of lube.

He lifts it to his face and doesn’t even look remotely surprised to read the flavor. Shawn tries to lift his eyebrows innocently anyway and Lassi snorts. He’s got it all over his fingers in the next second, the artificially sweet scent making him snort again.

“I can explain,” Shawn starts, in case Lassiter’s thinking about that billboard again, and then just like that there’s slick pressure at his ass and he’s singing out the lyrics of a song he hasn’t heard in at least a decade.

Shawn shuts his eyes at the sharp pleasure, the startled hiss of Lassi’s breath when his finger slips easily inside. “Shawn,” his name is bitten off, and Shawn opens his eyes, gets a glimpse of the tiny smile on Carlton’s face to see him like that. That smile is all dark fantasies even if his touch is gentle.

Shawn spreads out even more on the bedspread and shuts his eyes again. His skin is hot, not with embarrassment, and it’s humming, tingling everywhere Carlton’s mouth has been. Lassiter’s fingers slides all of the way in and Shawn bites down on his lower lip. He gasps a second later when Lassi pulls out. His mouth is buzzing too.

“Shawn?” He’d really never expected this gentle. That’s Lassi, always surprising him at the best moments.

Shawn cracks an eye, and a smile. A big one.

“I may have gotten excited in the shower earlier,” he admits, honesty getting easier all the time, sliding down when Carlton probes him again. He’s not even close to laughing at the word probe either.

“Really?” Carlton’s voice rises on the end of that, his own question startling him as much as Shawn’s confession, and Shawn’s back curves away from the bed at the build up of pressure from one finger, all that shocked modesty. But shocked or not, Carlton is watching him with narrowed eyes and parted lips, and Shawn pushes down again, just to see his face. Well and because it’s awesome.

Carlton wets his lips, inches forward.

But only part of him isn’t enough, it’s not even close, and Shawn opens his mouth to complain when Carlton jerks back into motion, goes for two. He’s pretty awesome too.

“Lassi do me already,” Shawn yells out, digging in his heels for a moment, breathing hard even before Carlton twists his fingers to hit the sweet spot. “Jesus Christ.” He sounds just like Lassiter. “Crap,” Shawn pants in response to that thought, only making it worse. Lassi frowns, confused, and Shawn shakes his head and thrusts up at the same time. The bed is soft and Lassi is so hard and no way is he explaining right now.

“Do it,” he hasn’t forgotten the words, the way Hornstock had ordered. They slip out, out of his control. His eyes get wide when Lassiter’s fix on him, starving and dazed before they sharpen. Shawn darts out his tongue, tries to keep himself still. His hands clench on the bedspread and then he gives up, scooting his body down toward Lassiter, who can’t seem to breathe. He ought to stop, to shut up, except that’s not going to happen, so he swallows and keeps going.

“Do it,” he says again, his chin up. “You know you want to.”

The bed is too giving at his back, not enough to push against. Shawn puts his hands out, on the bedding, on himself. His chest is warm, red from Lassi’s mouth.

Long fingers are inside of him, others spread out on his hips, holding him down, and he’d always known he’d wriggle against that, that he’d move and moan until Lassiter had to fuck him.

“Ooh, Carlton,” he tries in Little Girl Voice when Carlton still doesn’t react, though just two fingers is already driving him crazy, pushing his voice up higher. “You’re sooo big!”

Carlton makes a noise, irritated or amused, Shawn can’t tell, but he slides in number three, and this time it burns. He goes still immediately when Shawn tenses, and Shawn listens to himself in the silence, his blood in his ears a match to the throbbing around Lassi’s fingers.

He picks up heavy breathing too, doesn’t care whose it is. “Oh, Lassi,” he begins again, swallowing as the tension eases. His Little Girl Voice falters and Lassi’s eyes fix on him again, so honestly worried that Shawn shifts, not exactly a wriggle but close. His mouth is dry. The rest of his body is tense and hungry. He memorizes the flex of muscle in Lassiter’s arm, the veins, because he can’t reach anything. “Give it to me.”

The “Spencer…” a moment after tells him exactly what Lassiter thinks of that, but Carlton moves, his fingers, his body, and Shawn is up off the bed, seeing stars and fireworks, little Carlton angels before he even realizes that it’s Carlton’s mouth on his dick, that Carlton’s fingers are still stroking inside of him.

He didn’t even know his eyes were closed until he opens them to the sight of Carlton bent over him, red tongue making him the happiest man alive.

He has the best boyfriend ever.

“Lassi!” Forgetting any funny voices, Shawn hitches his lower body up, babbling at each considerate, fantastic swipe of Lassiter’s tongue on his cock, shoving himself up again at the slow in and out of those fingers, the slick glide pushing in just a little farther when Shawn starts to babble again, all piña coladas and getting caught in the rain, which was probably like two or three songs ago, or he’s just been floating for that long.

Lassi pulls away to breathe, shivering hot against his cock, his whole body shuddering. He licks his shining lips and the Eighties confection that’s playing now might be the truest song he’s ever heard.

“Never gonna give you up,” Shawn sings along in a rush, sucking in air, “Never gonna let you down.” It’s seriously the worst song ever and he can’t stop. Carlton’s hand tries to grip his side, falls to the bed and Shawn stretches up, spreads his legs out for a moment. “Lassi.”

He can’t be quiet and Lassi isn’t telling him to. Shawn wriggles up again and Carlton moves. He’s pink and blue over him, his hand sliding away until Shawn is empty again, stretched. The line is between his eyes, all worry and frustrated tension, and Shawn smiles. When Lassi gets like this Shawn can beg because he doesn’t have to.

“C’mon, Lassi,” he whines, not really worried about Lassiter’s terms, then shuts up abruptly when Lassi reaches for one of the condoms.

Shawn licks his lips. The flutter’s back, just for a second, and then his hands are itching. He leans over, stroking the condom down with one hand, squeezing the shaft of Carlton’s dick for a moment to watch Lassi’s eyes flick open and closed. It’s hot and pounding and he can’t resist tugging the length, bringing his hand to his mouth to taste it.

He wonders if an impatient “stick it in” would be out of order, settles for laying back and giving his dick a couple of strokes too. Lassi’s eyes are on him the whole time, flaring up with the same need that’s on his face. Maybe he can wait a little bit longer, Shawn tells himself, breathing harder. Lassi wants him, and he’s not about to go anywhere.

“…Damned…exasperating…” Lassi grunts at Shawn’s sudden smile, bending his head to breathe against his cheek, pressing Shawn to the bed. His words are angry, but his hands take their time, working gently down under Shawn’s back. His stomach is flat above him, and Shawn shifts. His cock is wet, stiff, and he pushes into Lassiter impatiently, wiggling, dancing to the music down the hall.

“Spencer…Shawn…” Lassi wastes another warning on him, to be quiet, to go slower; Shawn doesn’t feel like guessing about it. He brings up a hand, dragging it across Lassi’s scalp, pulling to get a reaction and moaning at the ceiling when Lassiter swears his name. The cock against his ass reacts too, throbbing, and Shawn angles his hips up just to drive Lassiter crazy, slides his heels down Lassi’s calves, working those boxers all the way off at last.

No way is he letting go of Lassi’s hair either. Not until Lassiter gives in to his demands.

“Lassi,” but he can’t speak above a whisper, not in that moment, with Carlton’s hands sliding down his chest and stomach, resettling at his ass.

Carlton says his name again, turns it into another dirty Catholic curse word, and looks up as his big hands slide to Shawn’s thighs.

“Carlton,” Shawn answers the question those blue eyes are clearly asking, and gasps more at the _I want to fuck you_ there than the push into him.

It’s rough, when everything else has been gentle, but slow, and Shawn feels like Madeline Kahn all over again.

“Woof,” he gets out, because rough is just right. Carlton’s fingers curl into his skin, and that’s rough too, but he’s pausing, waiting. It’s got to be killing an old guy like him.

Shawn grabs onto Lassi’s back, holding for a few heartbeats, which is only seconds, because his heart is a freight train, and he’s got Lassiter’s pulse to consider too, a sweet, pounding stick up _his_ ass, and it’s probably wrong to be laughing at the thought. Carlton’s gaze goes to Shawn’s smile and stays there. Shawn wriggles, and Carlton’s hand slides off him to the bed.

He plants his other hand on the bed too and breathes out heavily over Shawn’s chest, glaring and hot, so frustrated that he’s shaking, and Shawn feels his smile slip. The glint returns to Carlton’s eye, and with no warning he shifts his position. Just enough. Just right. Shawn’s moaning in seconds, kicking out his feet.

“Marry me,” he shouts, mostly to feel Lassiter stiffen, not in the good way, but still awesome. Carlton can take his self-control, live among the creatures of the night, whatever. His hands smooth over skin, yanking on the undershirt, then falling to the bed when Lassi rolls back just to move in him again. He brings them back Carlton’s hair, but they slide through the short length without pulling. “Or just fuck me, that’s good too,” Shawn assures him, rocking his hips up. And _sweet downward thrust_ that was a sweet downward thrust. So good his brain sparks blue.

“Shawn…” Lassi’s voice is tight. His hands move, pushing him back, almost onto his knees, and Shawn would reach out but Lassi brings them back down around his hips, bringing them closer together. Lassi is asking him something, but there’s pressure _everywhere_.

“Shut up?” Shawn wonders faintly and gets a fierce glare that he can feel to his toes. Lassiter leans forward again, close enough to stare into his eyes, and—weird—Shawn stretches his neck to get closer to it, wanting a kiss, wanting anything.

“Lassi,” he groans when Lassi doesn’t move, at least not to kiss him, or growl into his neck, or anything. His hips move, a slow, shallow thrust, and Shawn kicks out again, trying to push up. There’s Lassiter everywhere against his skin, and he wriggles against it, not exactly trying to get away.

“Don’t stop,” Carlton answers finally, red-faced and breathless. He scowls, embarrassed, and Shawn rolls his eyes. His hands urge Lassiter’s head down, and this time Lassi lets them.

“Like you could make me.” He licks across Carlton’s jaw, his chin, until Carlton presses their mouths together, just for a moment.

He only gets a hint of Carlton’s tongue, the salty taste still lingering there, and then Carlton pulls back. There’s a gleam in his eyes that would have made Gus run for the hills. Shawn just rocks up against him, rubbing his dick against Carlton’s stomach. It’s wet contact, slick, raging disco inferno hot, but not enough of what he needs.

The gleam only gets brighter, and then Lassiter moves, pushing himself up so that no matter how Shawn twists, he’s got nothing to rub against. Which is cheating, again, but before Shawn can say anything about it, Lassi’s hands pulls Shawn’s out of his hair, force them down to the mattress.

Long fingers wrap around his wrists, and Lassiter has to lean back down, pinning them both into the bed.

Shawn opens his mouth, but all that comes out is kind of a whimpering noise and Lassi’s name. For a second he can’t move, doesn’t want to move, and then he can hear Henry yelling at him to at least _try_ to live up to the Spencer name so he shifts. He moves up, sliding against the hard body holding him down, squirming for every touch of skin. It’s beyond fireworks now, each touch and explosion streaking red-hot down his spine.

His thighs are shaking. Carlton is trembling above him too, still pressing into him, looking down at him.

“That’s right, Shawn,” Lassi says quietly and Shawn goes still, because Lass isn’t psychic because psychics don’t exist, but there’s that excuse for a smile on his face, and he’s moving his hips, slow and deliberate in a way that a frustrated, forty-ish cop isn’t supposed to even know how to do.

Shawn might be whimpering again, might already be pleading for Lassi to just _say it_.

He turns his head, and Lassi’s breath trickles into his ear. Other than a shudder, Shawn can’t move. He thinks again how much he wants to, why he can, and then looks back.

“…Beg me.”

Shawn stretches out, pinned down and not caring. It’s not weird, or embarrassing, it’s not anything but scorching blue above him that is definitely not hatred.

“Yes please, Lassi, Carlton, Detective Lassipants. Just fuck me.”

Hornstock had whispered into that desk, Shawn is yelling to wake up the neighbors, letting everyone know. He can hear Lassi’s choked noise, embarrassed now, because the Seventies slow-dancing hit is way too soft to cover that. Shawn doesn’t really care though.

Shawn shuts his eyes, opens them, tossing his head a little when Lassi pulls back, but fingers are tight at his wrists, not painful, and Carlton is saying his name. Saying Shawn. Just Shawn.

Shawn brings his legs up, throwing one across Carlton and then thrusting up. Carlton grunts, letting go of Shawn’s wrists, pushing down on Shawn’s hips, sliding beneath him to guide him back up.

He doesn’t say a thing when Shawn slaps his hands to his back and urges him closer. Shawn’s leaving bruises, but the drive into him is all friction, sticky and burning. There’s no space between them, or if there is, it’s still hot from Carlton’s breath.

“LassiLassiLassi,” Shawn chants. He’d wish for the tie, but then he wouldn’t get to touch so much, see so much. His body feels tight, then too open, and maybe it’s just been a while, but mostly he thinks it’s the man fucking him. His whispers are gentle, but his body moves rough, amazing, his hands sliding over sweaty skin, hungry.

He’s not wriggling anymore, or he is. Shawn can’t really be sure, doesn’t feel like checking. He couldn’t look up anyway, knows Lassi could read everything as easily as Shawn can if Shawn looks up now.

“ _Yes_ ,” is the only thing leaving his mouth, which isn’t ridiculous and probably shouldn’t be, with Carlton’s cock hitting just right inside him, making his vision flash white, and then rainbow-colored, making him shake.

“Shawn,” Lassi’s voice is cracked, and Shawn _knows_ , knows like he did watching him with Hornstock, that Lassi has to watch him come first. He could fight it, he knows that too, that he could argue or tease or just wriggle until Carlton comes apart inside of him. He could watch again, their faces pressed close.

He squeezes his legs around Carlton, doesn’t quiet his _OHGODYESLASSI_ at the way Carlton grips his skin.

He could get carpet burn off the bedspread at the answering thrust but just leans his head back, arching up. He tightens his muscles, shivering at the cursing above him. Everything is hot, humming. Lassiter doesn’t have a cute way of talking, but Shawn feel like dancing anyway, wants him, wants this.

The muscles of Carlton’s back are flexing, trembling. Shawn’s hands glide over them, find that tight ass.

“Now.” He’s not teasing. Honestly. Scout’s Honor, whatever Lassi wants. Shawn turns his head toward the heat of Carlton’s body, licks whatever patch of skin he finds, sucks small bruises across his shoulders. “Come on, Lassi please,” he begs, digging his heels into the mattress, sliding them back to Carlton’s legs.

“I’m dying,” he complains loudly a moment later, like Lassi can’t hear him gasping into his collarbone, can’t feel each desperate twist back up. “You’re killing me,” he adds, just to make Lassi feel guilty, to push him just a little farther.

“Spencer…” Lassi bites out, pressing him down into the mattress, fucking him down into the mattress, furious, hornier than he’d be with anyone else. Than he _had been_ with anyone else, because Shawn really is so much better for Lassiter than anyone else, and he knows it, loves it.

“Lassi!” The nickname slips out in another flash of white, and he can’t feel anything but the need in the hands slipping on him now. The tension flares up brighter at his back, quick, hot, _awesome_ , and Shawn can hear his own breathing, loud, rasping. His hands fly out, grabbing onto any part of Lassiter. Lass is talking too, saying his name in that pissed off tone that’s a lot like begging too.

He’s going to make him talk like that in the station, he’s going to drive Lassi crazy and then they’re going to come back here and do this again. And again, and again, in every position imaginable. They’re going to have dirty hot monkey sex all the time because he wants Lassiter like he’s never wanted anything else, because he’s _worked_ for it, because Lassi can’t say no to him, even when he tries.

“Shawn,” Carlton talks over whatever it is that Shawn’s saying, which might be all of that and more. Shawn’s throat is raw, but he can’t stop, because Carlton is fucking him, and everything in him says they’re going to do it again, and then everything ends at that. It sparks behind his eyes, colors and visions of the future that are actually real, because Shawn can see them.

He gasps and comes, rubbing himself into the mess on Carlton’s stomach, shocked at each lightening slide out and in. Carlton’s breathing is too rapid, too rough to last, but Shawn turns his head, shudders to feel it under his ear. Other than that he’s floating, dizzy and drunk.

“Spencer,” Lassi tries, cursing, losing his rhythm. “Shawn.” He growls as he comes, teeth and heavy weight, slick, shivering skin. His mouth is wet, and he’s hot, burning Shawn inside and out. A second later he falls against Shawn’s shoulder. Shawn holds still, though he doubts Lassi is going to notice. His body is humming, Lassiter’s pulse is strong.

Lassi is heavy, even if he is skinny. Shawn considers complaining, but decides not to, just because Lassi probably expects it, and because even though he’s tired, his hands move up to Carlton’s head, and his hair, and they couldn’t do that if Lassi moves.

Lassi’s hands aren’t still either. His thumb is stroking back and forth across Shawn’s stomach, in the kind-of-gross-and-getting-grosser-fluid between them, but so far, Carlton hasn’t said anything, so he must like it. Carlton is a little touchy about things he likes anyway, so Shawn just leaves his eyes closed and lays flat against the soft mattress, dropping his hands and letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He’s never going to move.

Except for one foot which he waves around in time to the song on the radio as it ends.

At the motion Carlton shifts, lifting up to stare at him so seriously that Shawn can feel it. He’s starting to think that he must not look as gloriously disheveled after sex as he thinks he does, because Carlton has given him that look four times now.

“Better than dinner in a restaurant, right?” Is all Shawn says, the words slipping out of nowhere just when his skin is starting to dry and get itchy and he can talk without sounding like he ran a marathon.

What he wants to say is that that was not at all the rough sex session he was expecting, that Lassi like this gives him nervous knots in his stomach, makes him want to do ridiculous things like curl around that lanky body. That he liked it anyway, that he _might_ be able to deal with being wrong occasionally if more of this is involved. Not that he’s going to say any of that out loud. Maybe to Gus. Not to Lassi.

Carlton snorts and Shawn decides to open his eyes, even if he’s still not going to move.

Carlton is…a mess. A sexy mess, so actually gloriously disheveled that Shawn’s glad Lassi dresses as uptight as he does at the station so no one else can see him like this. If Shawn were on top of his game, he’d make some sort of predictable yet irresistible—to Carlton—remark about a shower to keep Lassiter from noticing how Shawn can’t stop staring. They do both need a shower. Which might be on his face even if it shouldn’t be, because Carlton flinches and looks down. A moment later he’s shifting and sliding away.

The feel of him pulling out isn’t a good one, and neither is seeing Carlton get up and hurry off to the bathroom. Not that he expected—or wanted—cuddles or anything, but running away is usually more of Shawn’s thing.

Shawn opens his eyes all the way, putting his empty hands down to the bed to push himself up. He’s sore—in a good way—so that takes some effort. Not that he needs a doctor, or a preacher, or his mom. It’s just a sweet love hangover.

“Lassi?” he asks, not sure if Lassiter can hear him over the sound of running water. Carlton immediately appears in the bathroom doorway and Shawn lets out a breath. Carlton is naked, the shirt and condom gone, and he’s marked all over his shoulders, neck, and back with forming bruises from Shawn’s fingers. His hair is exactly how Shawn likes it.

Whatever’s on his face at that, Shawn has a feeling it’s something Henry would disapprove of. More for his revealing it at all than for what it means. Lassiter blinks and even though it shouldn’t be possible considering where his fingers and mouth have been recently, actually turns red.

He’s got a wet washcloth in his hand and returns to the bed with it, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. He glances up so fast that Shawn only gets a hint of his sour puss, and then puts the washcloth on Shawn’s chest and wipes at the mess. The washcloth is even warm, Shawn shivers again anyway.

Lassi’s not touching him, just slowly wiping up every trace of come and lube. He pauses before moving down, then stops when Shawn sucks in a breath at the touch to a very sensitive area. He glances up again, the Shawn frown line in place, and when he clears his throat, Shawn tries not to look too horrified at any tender, post-coital phrases that might come out of Lassi’s mouth.

“Could you have been any louder, Spencer?” Carlton grunts instead. Not tender at all. He runs the cloth very softly over Shawn’s thighs then tosses it to the side.

“Give me an hour and I can try again,” Shawn grins back instantly, and yes, that is disbelief in Lassiter’s face. Then his stomach rumbles. “An hour, and some food,” he corrects himself. It doesn’t do anything for the vaguely surprised look on Lassiter’s face, but whatever’s behind that isn’t important right now.

Shawn scoots carefully back until he’s against the headboard, shifting to the side so there will be room for Lassi, not that Lassi is moving. This is why Lassi needs a tie to be yanked around by.

“Which will be okay,” Shawn goes on, startles Lassi again, judging from his twitching. “Because _Menucci’s_ says an hour, but really it’s more like forty-five minutes, so the pizza ought to be here soon.” He pats the bed and sees Lass study the gesture. _Menucci’s_ was a good choice, and at least they hadn’t gotten the linguica. “You ought to get a TV in here, that way we can watch cartoons. You owe me a Disney Afternoon, you know.”

Lassi—finally—blinks and then slides into the bed, sitting next to Shawn with his legs closed and his hands in his lap.

“I don’t recall owing you anything,” he remarks, as of course he would, even though Lassipants had been just as intrigued by a Launchpad McQuack comparison as Shawn had been. Not that Shawn really cares about cartoons; he just knows how easy it is to lure Lassi into anything, and he doesn’t really feel like moving all that much right now. In fact, nothing could get him to move, except maybe a Hawaiian pizza, or what he’s about to do.

Shawn twists in his best stealth-cop mode and ends up straddling Lassi in one quick motion. It pulls at things that are already a little pulled, but he grins through it since Carlton’s eyes are big blue circles.

“You really _have_ been waiting for any chance to get in my lap.” Carlton looks shocked, but his hands come up on their own and hold onto Shawn’s waist.

Since that’s obvious, Shawn doesn’t answer it. He just sticks a hand in Carlton’s chest hair and tugs, just a little. The soft growling noise Carlton makes goes right through him.

“Though I have to ask, Lassi. At the full moon, do the men in your family suddenly turn into werewolves that get magically really, really good at basketball no matter how tall they actually are in real life?”

“I swear to God, Spencer…” Lassi breathes out, but doesn’t finish, his confused stare shifting to a fiery _I want to fuck you_ just like that.

“I’m really flattered, Lassi, but that’s a little soon, even for someone with my amazing abilities.” Sensitive parts of not, Shawn wriggles just for the sake of it, enjoying the return of happy little Carlton noises. Or irritated grumbling as Gus might call it. Confused, turned on, careless, he loves doing all of that to Lassiter. Anyway, it’s only fair, since that was how all of this had started.

“Anyway,” he starts again, leaning down to enjoy the fierce sounds up close and personal. He makes a noise of his own for a second when Carlton turns his face and their mouths are close to touching. He breathes out and it’s Carlton’s turn to shiver. “That pizza should be…wait!”

Shawn jerks his head up, just barely missing Lassiter’s chin. He ignores the scowl.

“It’s here!” he declares loudly a moment before the doorbell rings. A sore body doesn’t mean anything when there’s hot pineapple waiting.

“How did you…?” Carlton stops himself, but Shawn pauses in sliding gracefully from the bed—in no way fumbling to the floor—to imagine the frown. Shawn waves a hand at his head, grabs a sock. Just one sock, because even the pizza guy needs to know that awesome sex had just happened in this house. Then he realizes it must be an old, dirty sock of Carlton’s and drops it.

“Vision,” Shawn explains shortly as he slips on Carlton’s boxers. “Also, the time thing. Your watch is still on.”

The commercials are over on the radio but Shawn hears Lassi’s indrawn breath before the next song starts. He freezes, looking up. Carlton is looking back at him, not frowning.

Shawn inhales the scent of pineapple, which, yes, he can smell even yards away and through a door, and then gives Carlton a frown of his own. But he crawls back into the bed to where Carlton is still sitting.

“I’ll let you have the first slice,” he promises, not quite able to believe himself and so not surprised when Carlton only stares at him. “Trust me.” There’s all sorts of Gus and Henry nagging in his head, even though he’s only leaving a few minutes and he doesn’t see the big deal. He’s not going anywhere, Lassi has to get that, right? Only Lassi still isn’t speaking or making obscenely hot little animal noises, so maybe he doesn’t. “Okay, the second, but I’ll share my extra pineapple with you.”

Honestly, he doesn’t know what he’s ever done to deserve this stare. Not once has he ever steered Carlton wrong—for anything serious—or lied—for anything _really_ serious—and he’s coming right back. Lassi and pineapple in the same place…it might be a dream come true.

“Okay, I _was_ going to take all the pieces off your slice, but now I won’t,” Shawn finally admits as the doorbell rings again, and Carlton blinks.

There’s…a strange look on his face. It takes Shawn a second, but then he recognizes it as a smile. An actual smile. Without even a hint of a “you’re an idiot, Spencer” in it, which, to be honest, is the reaction Shawn was expecting.

His skin feels hot, his stomach flip-flopping in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. He’s got a feeling his mouth is hanging open, which is not cool. But _there_ , Shawn thinks, strangely mesmerized, there it is, happiness, or approval, or pride, or just love, but there it is, possibly where it’s been all along. Safe, even amid the paranoia and fried squid.

He wants to say it, to state the obvious, but what comes out is, “Dude, I was so wrong” in a tone that’s more shocked than anything else. Lassi just grunts at him, his eyes bright.

“Shut up, Spencer…” he gives an irritated sigh that is in no way convincing considering the way he’s looking Shawn up and down. Then he says something so sweet and so trusting that Gus will never believe it. Shawn’s not even sure he does, and the evidence is all there in front of him, skinny and naked and moving his feet to the Otis on the radio better than Ducky ever did. He's not going anywhere. “…And go get your pizza.”


End file.
